Ties of Blood
by Serenade
Summary: In the aftermath of the Gaea War, Dilandau must come to terms with the difficult situation in which he finds himself.
1. Faces in Shadow

T I E S O F B L O O D  
  
an Escaflowne fanfic  
  
by Serenade  
  
  
--- Author's notes ---  
  
Spoiler warning:  
This story is set after the end of the Escaflowne series. If you haven't seen all the episodes, you may encounter a number of significant spoilers.  
  
Spellings:  
I have tried to keep to the official romanisation of names, at least as far as I can discover what they are. There are two exceptions to this. I have chosen to render 'Eries' as 'Elise', in part because this is the form I was originally most familiar with, and in part for aesthetic purposes. I have also chosen to render 'Celena' as 'Serena', because this was the form more widely used by fans at the time I began writing this story.  
  
Disclaimer:  
I don't own most of these characters. They belong to the creators of the Escaflowne series, who are wonderful people for bringing us such a brilliant show. This is a non-profit work for the enjoyment of fans.  
  
Dedication:  
To all the Dilandau fans out there. This one's for you.  
  
  
--- Part 1: Faces in Shadow ---  
  
He woke sweating, the bedsheets twisted about him, the scream barely stifled in his throat. It was the nightmare he could never remember, the one that always left him shaking with a nameless dread.  
  
He sat up, fumbling for the bedside lamp. The movement brought a wave of sickening pain crashing through his skull. He gripped his head in his hands, knocking over the lamp in the process. He could hear raised voices in the corridor, as he lay hunched over, gasping.  
  
Footsteps approached, stopping by the bed. He lifted his head gingerly, trying to focus on the figure standing before him.  
  
"How do you feel?" the man asked, smiling not unkindly. It wasn't a face he recognised, although the thick brush of a moustache obscured its lower half. As he stared, the stranger added, "It's all right. I'm a doctor."  
  
He didn't particularly trust doctors. For him, they bore unpleasant associations: the yellow delirium of illness, or brutally cold medical treatments. Their garments were always laced with the smell of death. But this man seemed to expect him to be reassured by his words.  
  
In any case, there was nothing for him to do right now but acquiesce as the doctor carried out his examination. "What's wrong with me?" he managed to ask. "Was I--was I wounded?"  
  
"You've been ill with fever." A woman's voice, calm and level. He craned his neck to see her. She was standing at the doctor's shoulder, her slender form poised, her even features expressionless. Her pale gold hair was drawn back into a careful arrangement, held in place by a finely embroidered cap. Hers was not a familiar face either, although it was an exquisitely graceful one. She regarded him with an assessing gaze. "You're in Palas."  
  
"Palas?" he repeated. The capital of Asturia. Why would he be here? While he struggled to shape his next question, the doctor turned to address the woman.  
  
"His fever is gone, your Highness, but he is not yet recovered. He will need plenty of rest before his strength returns. Too much exertion, and he could suffer a relapse."  
  
"I see. Thank you, doctor. You may leave us."  
  
"But Princess Elise--"  
  
"There is no danger to me. Please." She inclined her head towards the door. With a sigh, the doctor picked up his bag and left.  
  
"What am I doing here?" he asked, as soon as the door had closed. "What do you want with me?"  
  
"You were originally brought here from the battlefield. Your guymelef was badly damaged during the fighting. You yourself were not in the best condition." She paused, a hand tapping the bedpost thoughtfully. "But that was some time ago. There is someone else who is better suited to answer your questions." Elise gestured, and a figure separated itself from the shadows. The man who stepped forward was tall and lean, with a fall of blond hair sweeping past his shoulders.  
  
And *his* face was instantly familiar.  
  
Despite the headache and the nausea, he managed a sneer at the newcomer. "Allen Schezar. I suppose I am your prisoner now."  
  
"That depends." Allen's face was just as unreadable as Elise's. "Do you remember who you are?"  
  
He cast Allen a look of scorn. He wasn't *that* disoriented. "I am Dilandau Albatou, commander of the--" He faltered. He didn't have a command anymore. The Dragonslayers were all dead, weren't they? All except for him. He swallowed angrily, and lifted his chin. "I am an officer in the army of the Zaibach Empire."  
  
Allen appeared unmoved by this small show of pride. "Zaibach is defeated. The war is over."  
  
"What?" It was impossible. How could Zaibach have lost? He swung his stare from Allen to Elise, searching for signs of deception.  
  
"We are not lying to you," Elise said, in her calm clear voice. "The surviving remnants of the army have surrendered."  
  
He couldn't find it in him to doubt her words. Instead, he stared dully at his hands. The promised victory had been so close. But now it was all over.  
  
He raised his head. "Are you going to execute me, then?"  
  
"No," Allen said sharply, while Elise compressed her lips. They exchanged a glance. "Subject to certain conditions," he amended.  
  
"Conditions?"  
  
"Taking an oath of allegiance to Asturia, to begin with."  
  
*To serve side by side with Allen Schezar?* "I think I would sooner die," he said.  
  
"Don't be a fool, Dilandau. Why throw your life away? We need not be enemies."  
  
"I don't want your mercy."  
  
"You're only fifteen," Allen said with quiet gentleness. "What about your family?"  
  
"I have no family." The reference to his age rankled. He was always having to defend his authority against those who thought he had no business holding a command.  
  
Allen was not put off. "Everyone has a family."  
  
"What business is it of yours?" he asked bluntly. "Is this an interrogation?"  
  
"No. Merely a conversation."  
  
"I have nothing to say to you." He turned his face away deliberately. He hoped they would simply lose patience and leave. Perhaps if he could close his eyes and lie there in silence, the persistent throbbing in his head might go away.  
  
But Allen was not affected by Dilandau's display of hostility. "I'm sorry to hear that. I had hoped we could find some common ground."  
  
He couldn't refrain from responding to that. "I hardly think we have much in common."  
  
"Oh? And why are you so sure of that? After all, you hardly know me." Allen hesitated, as if weighing up some gambit. "For example, did you know that I once had a sister? Her name was Serena."  
  
"Do you really think I care?" Dilandau said. It was pathetic to listen to, this fumbling attempt at connection.  
  
"She went missing when she was very young," Elise said quietly. "Allen has not seen her in many years."  
  
"Am I supposed to feel sorry for him then?" He waited for Allen's reaction--anger, reproach, disgust--anything to break out of this strange, tortuous exchange. But there was no trace of animosity in Allen's eyes, only a grave sorrow.   
  
"It happened ten years ago, but I've never stopped wondering about her. Wondering whether she was alive or dead. Whether she was happy where she was. Wondering if I could have... Well."  
  
Elise let out a soft breath, as though his words stirred up memories of her own. Dilandau suppressed a cutting comment. So Schezar had a tragedy in his past. It still didn't win him any points. Meanwhile, Dilandau's headache was subsiding into a distant grinding ache. He wondered when they would leave and let him sleep.  
  
"She reappeared last month," Allen said unexpectedly.  
  
"Well, good for you," Dilandau said, but his sarcasm lacked some of its usual bite. "Is that the end of the story? Because I'm very tired."  
  
"Oh, no," Allen said, his tone reflective. "It's only the beginning. I don't know the end yet. There's a lot of the story I don't know, actually. Serena couldn't tell me much, because she didn't remember what happened. But I've managed to piece together a fair amount nonetheless.  
  
"One of the things I've learned was that she had been taken to Zaibach."  
  
Dilandau felt a cold finger of apprehension trace its way down his spine. "I'm really not interested in your family history, okay?"  
  
Allen went on as if he had not heard. "She was given into the keeping of the sorcerers. They used to do experiments on people--"  
  
"I don't want to hear it!" The blood was suddenly pounding in his ears.  
  
"They used the fate-changing machines on her," Allen continued relentlessly. "They erased her past, altered her body--"  
  
"*Shut up!*"  
  
"They gave her a new name." Allen's eyes were locked on his own. "Dilandau."  
  
He stared back into Allen's intense gaze, unable to speak, bereft of response. There was nothing he could summon up to shift this absurd, impossible moment back into normality.  
  
Helplessly, he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed, uncontrollably, until his lungs spasmed in a fit of coughing which brought the taste of blood into his throat.  
  
*****  
  
His head lay back on the sweat-stained pillow. The headache had retreated, but his chest still ached. There was a cup of some draught on the bedside table. He gathered it was meant to soothe the pain, but he left it untouched. He didn't trust them not to drug it.  
  
A wan circle of light leaked in from the corridor. He could hear their conversation in the next room, low but distinct.  
  
Elise was saying, "I'm not totally satisfied with the arrangements you're proposing. You must know that he is a security risk."  
  
"The war is over, your Highness. I'll take responsibility for him."  
  
"That may not be enough."  
  
"I have to do this. Don't you see? I failed Serena before. I won't fail again."  
  
"There was nothing you could have done, Allen. You're taking on blame that isn't yours."  
  
"But there is something I can do about it now. And if I do not, then the blame *will* be mine, and deservedly so."  
  
"Allen..."  
  
"Elise, whatever enmity may lie between us, he is my blood kin."  
  
A sigh. "Very well. He is your charge, and under your protection. And you will be held responsible for his actions."  
  
"Understood, your Highness. I thank you."  
  
"Save your thanks. You may yet come to regret this decision."  
  
A brief silence. "I know."  
  
Their voices drifted in and out of earshot as his concentration ebbed. Already, it seemed almost like a dream. This whole thing ought to be a dream, he thought drowsily. Some vivid, insane nightmare.  
  
It couldn't be true, what Allen was saying. It had to be some kind of plot, a convoluted scheme to neutralise him. He tried to work out the reasoning in his head, but before he could untangle it, sleep reached out and took him into its dark embrace.  
  
  
--- continued in Part 2 --- 


	2. Weapons

T I E S O F B L O O D  
  
an Escaflowne fanfic  
  
by Serenade  
  
  
--- Author's notes ---  
  
Spoiler warning:  
This story is set after the end of the Escaflowne series. If you haven't seen all the episodes, you may encounter a number of significant spoilers.  
  
Disclaimers and other notes can be found in Part 1 of the story.  
  
  
--- Part 2: Weapons ---  
  
He had always expected to die upon the battlefield.  
  
It was not that he had ever courted death, like other reckless would-be heroes. He had seen enough of it inflicted upon others to understand that it was messy, and painful, and typically futile. Besides, there was nothing to be achieved by losing.  
  
Still, he had resolved some time ago that he would rather die than allow himself to be taken captive. Surrender seemed so shameful. To be placed at the mercy of your enemies, to be subject to whatever treatment they dealt you--it was an unthinkable prospect.  
  
But here he was. He wasn't going to die.  
  
Not from wounds taken on the field, at least. It was still possible that he would be executed as a war criminal, despite Allen Schezar's protests to the contrary. He was indisputably guilty of acts against the crown of Asturia. The idea didn't alarm him as much as it ought. He had had to absorb a number of alarming ideas recently. And he had time enough to consider them as he lay in bed, enduring the slow, arduous process of recovery.   
  
He couldn't deny with confidence any of their assertions. There were vast chasms in his memory he would rather not explore. He suspected it was these lost memories which surfaced in the night to wrack his sleep. He had never asked anyone else what he might have revealed unknowingly, not even Migel.  
  
Fate was such a strange beast. But when had his life ever been ordinary? If it were true--if the name of the child the sorcerers took had been Serena Schezar--well, what of it? He was not that child. He was an adult, and a soldier, and he had his own name. It was a name that was feared, and he took pride in having carved out that fear with his own deeds.  
  
He still knew who he was; there was no reason for him to feel this strange, disturbing sense of dislocation.  
  
There was a soft knock on the door. He jerked upright in bed, the sheets tumbling to his waist. Embedded training made his hand yearn for the shape of a weapon, but the only thing in reach was a silver water ewer on the bedside stand. Not the most intimidating of objects. So he let a defiant smile fall over his features, and waited for the hammering of his heart to quieten.  
  
The door opened, without waiting for a response. Allen Schezar stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. "Good morning," he said.  
  
Dilandau surveyed Allen with a wary displeasure. He looked immaculate as always, in his crisp blue surcoat and finely woven white shirt. Dilandau became conscious of his own disarray: the sleep-rumpled tunic he was wearing; his hair, without the circlet, falling into his eyes. He pushed it back with a brusque movement--when had it grown so long, anyway?--and stared brazenly back at Allen.  
  
Allen displayed not a hint of having noticed Dilandau's barely veiled antagonism. Instead, he simply ran that quietly observant gaze over him. "How are you feeling today?"  
  
"Fine," he said shortly. When the silence held, he was forced to add, "Better than last night, anyway." Tension knotted deep in his belly. What did Allen want from him? Dilandau couldn't tell from his face.  
  
"You were ill for a long time," Allen said. "Not even the doctors knew if you would pull through."  
  
"I've survived so far." He plucked at the threads of his blanket with restless fingers. "What's going to happen to me?"  
  
"That remains to be seen. But I will do everything in my power to ensure your protection." Allen might have been speaking as a knight to some beleaguered damsel. The incongruity of the situation was laughable.  
  
"*You*, protect *me*? Who do you think I am?" Dilandau threw off the covers, and swung himself off the bed.  
  
Allen began sharply, "You're still not--"  
  
The room darkened alarmingly. Dilandau barely caught the edge of the bed in time as his legs gave without warning. Allen moved forward, then checked himself as Dilandau flashed him a deadly look.  
  
Dilandau levered himself back onto the bed, sitting so that he wasn't quite facing Allen, while not quite turned away. He had difficulty holding back the dismay that had surged up at this betrayal by his body. He threw Allen a fierce glare, challenging him to comment. Allen met his gaze steadily.  
  
"It takes time to recover. The doctor said so. You'll be much stronger in a few weeks."  
  
"I don't need your reassurances." He wished to be at full strength *now*, so he could break out of this room and escape. Escape this palace, and this city, and most of all Allen Schezar, who sat watching him with impenetrable eyes; Allen Schezar, who seemed as though he was trying to say something to the person in this bed, and finding that all the words were somehow wrong.  
  
Another knock at the door, sudden and loud. Dilandau tensed again. Allen stepped quickly to the door and opened it. There was a grey-smocked servant standing there; she and Allen had a brief exchange of words. Dilandau also caught a glimpse of a guard beyond the door, poised sharply at attention.  
  
Allen returned, carrying a tray laden with crockery. He set it down carefully on the table by the bed. "You have to have something to eat," he said.  
  
Dilandau regarded the tray with doubt and hesitation. Half-familiar smells wafted from the covered dishes.  
  
"It's not poisoned. Do you need me to demonstrate?"  
  
"Hah. Does it matter? I have no choice, do I? If I don't want to starve." He wasn't sure why Allen seemed so intent on maintaining this show of cordiality, but he didn't feel like playing along.  
  
In any case, he was aware that he was fearsomely hungry. The fever had burned him hollow.  
  
He reached for a loaf of bread, tore off a generous chunk. It was light and floury, unlike standard mess hall fare. There was fresh butter as well, so he smeared on a thick coat. He was busy chewing it down when he became aware of Allen's attentive, unwavering observation. It was unsettling.  
  
Irritated, he asked, "What is it? Should I have offered thanks or something?"  
  
Allen shook his head silently. Perhaps sensing the awkwardness, he pushed himself up from his chair and launched into pacing around the room.  
  
Dilandau went on with his meal. The scrambled eggs were somewhat richer than his stomach liked at the moment, but it was real food, and he needed the nutrients if he wanted to get out of here. It was actually kind of amusing, when he thought about the situation--here he was, being served breakfast in bed by Allen Schezar.  
  
"Hey," he said between mouthfuls. "Do you really think they're going to let me go?"  
  
The tossed off question fell into silence. Allen continued his measured tread across the carpet as if he had not heard. Dilandau felt his irritation stirring again, like a persistent itch. "Hey, I said--"  
  
"So much depends on the unpredictable," Allen said suddenly. "I would have expected opposition in any case, considering their attitudes in the past. There are those in the court who will never support me, but I believe I have managed to overcome most of Princess Elise's reservations."  
  
Dilandau cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" Allen's reputation with the ladies was notorious, even in Zaibach. "That may be good for you, but last I heard, it was King Aston who ruled in Asturia."  
  
Allen's expression grew clouded. "His Majesty has been unwell for some time now. Elise is Regent while he is ill."  
  
Interesting. It seemed that Asturia itself was moving through unstable times. Perhaps it wouldn't have long to celebrate its recent victories before other power-seekers circled in, sensing opportunity.  
  
"I've managed to persuade most of them that your public renunciation would be more valuable than your execution," Allen was saying.  
  
Dilandau put down his fork. "My *what*?"  
  
"Just a brief, formal ceremony," Allen assured him. "But an important one nonetheless. Before you take your oath of allegiance, you'll need to renounce your crimes, and declare repentance. You should disavow any further connection with Zaibach for the atrocities it has committed."  
  
Dilandau could feel the heat gathering beneath his skin, but he turned on a pleasant smile instead. "And my own part in these atrocities?" he inquired.  
  
"You were manipulated, obviously. Coerced into obeying them." Allen's voice grew soft. "You were a victim of their schemes too."  
  
Allen Schezar--Allen Schezar was *sorry* for him. The thought filled him with appalled anger. Allen had no idea what it had cost him to get to where he stood today. How hard he had fought to win a place of his own.  
  
"Is that what you tell yourself?" he bit out.  
  
"Do you say it is untrue, then?"  
  
"Let me ask you a question," Dilandau said, not answering. "What if I don't want to do this?"  
  
Allen's brows drew down.  
  
"What if I don't feel like grovelling in front of your snobby little court and begging their forgiveness? What if I'd rather tell them all to go kiss Zaibach's ass instead?"  
  
"Vulgarities are unnecessary, Dilandau."  
  
"You can take your deal, and your mercy mission, and shove it all. I'm not going to roll over like a dog and lick their boots, just for the privilege of swearing loyalty to your fat king!"  
  
"Dilandau, please don't be difficult..."  
  
"Don't talk to me like I'm a child!" he snapped.  
  
Allen locked his fingers over the back of the chair. "Can't you see, I'm trying to buy you your life!"  
  
"No. You want me to sell it! I will not be Asturia's puppet. I owe Zaibach that much. They were the ones who fed me, and trained me, and made me into a soldier." It had been a harsh forging, but steel always needed tempering. So they had told him. "*They* made me who I am today."  
  
"*I know*," Allen said, embers igniting in his eyes. He drew in a deep breath. "Look. Loyalty is an admirable thing, if you can be loyal to an empire like Zaibach. But Asturia is your home now. It has always been your real home."  
  
"Asturia, Asturia," he mocked. "What has Asturia ever done for me?"  
  
"You have a life ahead of you in Asturia, if you don't spurn this chance. For there's surely none left for you in Zaibach."  
  
"You made sure of that, didn't you? You and your fine friends." Zaibach's heart had been in its army; into it had poured the wealth of a nation, the cream of its technology, the shining best of its youth. Now its heart had been cut out. It would take a generation to rebuild.  
  
Most of that generation was now dead.  
  
Dilandau's fingers tightened on the sheets as he remembered his own young soldiers, all of them killed on a distant green field somewhere outside of Freid. There was not even a cairn to mark where they fell, or give proof of their memory. Only he, who had survived, would remember who they were.  
  
He had survived. He wondered why, if it all came to this.  
  
Allen seemed to notice the darkness in Dilandau's eyes. "Perhaps I am being too hasty," he said at last. "You probably need some time to think it over."  
  
That was the last thing he needed. Too much time confined here, trapped with his thoughts, could not be healthy for his mind. Or perhaps Allen was hoping to break him that way. "You already know what I think."  
  
"Don't be so quick to discard your options. Believe me, this is the most palatable of the alternatives."  
  
"Why should you care anyway? Why do you want to do this for me? And I don't want to hear any crap about duty. The only duty you have would be to lock me up as a prisoner of war."  
  
"We are not at war, Dilandau," Allen said. "And you are not a prisoner."  
  
"Oh, really? Then I suppose those guards outside would just let me stroll out of here?"  
  
"I would advise you not to leave these rooms." Allen fixed a steely look upon him. "You're still not well enough to travel far. And the guards are for your own protection as much as anything else. There are those who see themselves as patriots..." He shook his head grimly. "If they knew you were here, they would not hesitate to act. And there are also those who should know better, who would be willing to turn a blind eye."  
  
"I can protect myself."  
  
"Against men with swords?"  
  
"You could leave me a weapon."  
  
Allen shook his head. "I don't think so. You might hurt yourself with it."  
  
Stung, he was about to launch a scathing retort, when he realised that Allen wasn't casting a slur on his martial prowess, but referring to something quite different.  
  
"I wasn't planning anything like that," he said, after a long moment.  
  
"Good," Allen said. "Don't. It would be a meaningless gesture."  
  
"I can't see that my welfare should concern you much."  
  
"Oh, but you're wrong. What happens to you is a matter of great interest to me." Again, that intent, unsettling gaze.  
  
"You don't have a reason to do this. I'm not--I'm not who you seem to think I am." And that was as close as he was going to come to acknowledging Allen's claims about him.  
  
"Maybe so," Allen said. "But I think that you're not who you seem to think you are, either."  
  
*And what the hell was that supposed to mean?*  
  
*****  
  
The incessant sound of rain became the background to his days. The late summer storms which blew through Asturia and ravaged its shipping lanes also wreaked havoc upon the palace roof. Generations of weather-harried monarchs had gradually strengthened the structure against repeated battering, but the damage wrought on the capital by Zaibach's attack was not yet fully repaired. Consequently, there were sections of the palace fairly vulnerable to natural forces. Dilandau could occasionally hear the crash of a tile as it fell and shattered onto the courtyard below.  
  
Allen came and went as he could, doubtless having knightly duties to attend to. He did not press for an answer on the subject of oaths, and Dilandau avoided the topic himself. Their exchanges were terse to the point of abruptness.  
  
Dilandau always felt a sense of relief when Allen left, as though some tightly-wound spring inside him uncoiled. Not that he would ever let anyone sense the vast discomfort that assailed him. He had been commander of the Dragonslayers, who had brought down nations. Who was he to be rattled in the presence of the enemy? Even an enemy as blandly self-assured as Allen Schezar.  
  
Allen might be assuming that his patient, unyielding stance would be enough to wear down Dilandau's rebellion, but Dilandau had no intention of remaining here that long. As soon as he was well enough, he planned to leave this place behind.  
  
The first few times he'd tried to stand up, he'd experienced the same wrenching dizziness that had aborted his previous attempt. But he refused to crumble back into helplessness, forcing himself to continue trying until he could remain upright without support. By the end of the week, he could walk the length of the room unaided, albeit with slow care. He somehow neglected to inform Allen of his progress.  
  
The room Dilandau had been assigned was a modestly furnished chamber, probably used as guest lodgings in ordinary circumstances. It was perhaps a little smaller than his officer's quarters back on the flying fortress Vione, but the carved wooden panelling and the heavy wall hangings evoked comfort and taste. The most interesting feature, in Dilandau's eyes, was the door into the corridor. From what he could tell it was not kept locked, which was a rather condescending gesture since it seemed to be guarded around the clock.  
  
The only window was on the facing wall, its curtains usually drawn back to let in the watery sunlight. He had made his way there as soon as he was able, tracing his fingers along the wall for balance.  
  
He managed to locate the latch and thrust the glass pane open. The rain was still drizzling down endlessly, broken light touching the drenched city with reflections of grey and gold. The harbour wasn't visible from this angle, but he could hear the seagulls shrieking in the distance.  
  
The grey flagstones of the courtyard were a long way below. Dilandau stared bleakly down for a space of moments, before closing the window tightly. It was true what he had told Allen--he was not prepared to contemplate that course of action yet.  
  
He was abruptly reminded of another time when he had stood at the window of a locked room, thinking about alternatives to death. The window had had bars then, and he had not been offered many choices.  
  
The memory set his heartbeat pulsing just a fraction more quickly. The stale smell of fear, the echoing emptiness. The rawness in his throat, hoarse from crying out. And the only answer he ever heard: *You might as well stop it. No one's going to come for you.*  
  
The room seemed suddenly airless, its close confines oppressive. He had to force himself to breath deeply, to maintain his composure. It was nerves, he told himself. He was just keyed up from prolonged inactivity. He had always hated the process of waiting. It meant giving the initiative to your opponents, allowing them to determine the next move you made. He always preferred to take the offensive instead.  
  
So why was he still waiting around? It wasn't as though someone was going to sweep in and rescue him from this... this pantomime. The only one he could rely on was himself.  
  
He kept telling himself this as he curled his fingers around the polished grip of the door handle. He turned it slowly, as far as it would go, and then he pushed on it. A cool draft flowed through the crack in the door.  
  
His room seemed to be at the far end of an isolated wing, presumably so he wouldn't be a menace to others. There were a pair of guards stationed a short distance down the corridor. They straightened up briskly when they saw the door open, and began moving towards Dilandau with alertness in their eyes.  
  
"You're supposed to be resting in bed," one of the guards said.  
  
"I'm sick of resting," Dilandau said, directing a flat stare at the men. "I'm sick of being stuck in this room."  
  
"I'm afraid you can't go outside," the guard said. "The Commander doesn't want you wandering around."  
  
"Yeah," the other guard added, "you're not well enough yet."  
  
*Is that Allen's excuse then?* Dilandau felt a flare of anger thaw him from the remains of his black mood. "So I'm an *invalid*, am I? Do I look like I'm about to collapse and die?"  
  
The first guard shrugged. "I'm sorry, but you're not the one who gives me my orders."  
  
He would never have tolerated such insolence from his own men. Dilandau pushed forward, only to find the guards barring his way with their pikes.  
  
"If you want to complain about this, you'll have to wait for Lord Allen to return."  
  
"I don't want to wait. I hate this place. I hate this stupid room." His hand latched onto one of the intricate tapestries that adorned the walls. He gave it a vicious yank. There was a tearing sound as it snapped loose from its mounting and collapsed to the floor.  
  
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"  
  
Dilandau ignored the guard's question and moved along to the next tapestry on the wall. He ripped it down with a swift brutal movement.  
  
"You'd better stop that, I'm warning you--"  
  
"Make me," Dilandau said. He swept his arm across the top of a dresser, sending delicate porcelain figures crashing to the ground. Slowly and deliberately, he crunched the shards underfoot.  
  
"You keep that up," growled the guard, advancing, "and you're going to be sorry."  
  
Dilandau backed away, toppling chairs and candelabra. He reached behind him and found with his fingers the shape of the water ewer.  
  
"I don't think so," he said, and swung its heavy bulk at the approaching guard. It smashed into the side of his head with satisfying solidity. The man crumpled to the ground like a doll. Dilandau had no time to check on his condition because now the other guard was coming through the door with a drawn sword in his hand.  
  
The combat-high was pumping through him like a drug. He swooped down to grab a fallen candelabrum, and brandished the lit end at the guard who faced him. Little globs of burning wax spattered onto the carpet.  
  
A wide, slow smile spread across Dilandau's face.  
  
"You're not going to block my *way*, are you?"  
  
  
--- continued in Part 3 --- 


	3. Closer to Fire

T I E S O F B L O O D  
  
an Escaflowne fanfic  
  
by Serenade  
  
  
--- Author's notes ---  
  
Spoiler warning:  
This story is set after the end of the Escaflowne series. If you haven't seen all the episodes, you may encounter a number of significant spoilers.  
  
Disclaimers and other notes can be found in Part 1 of the story.  
  
With many thanks to Nat-chan for beta reading and advice.   
  
  
--- Part 3: Closer to Fire ---  
  
The smell of smoke stained the air with a bitterness she could taste in every breath she took. It lingered unpleasantly in her nostrils even when she exhaled. Millerna tried not to breathe too deeply as she hastened across the East Courtyard in the gathering gloom. Her eyes were fixed on a tiny window set high up on the far wall. She could see firelight leaping up behind the glass, in a room where no fire should be.  
  
The guards who accompanied her--Geve and Virnan, summarily recruited from their posts--were hard-pressed to keep up with her rapid pace. Even though it was always difficult to run in skirts, Millerna did not lack practice. She raised a hand to shield her eyes as another gust of wind drove the rain into her face. She could see no one else foolhardy enough to have braved the outdoors on this dismal evening.  
  
When Millerna reached the double-doors guarding this wing of the palace, she threw them open without hesitation and began ascending the stairs to the third floor. Her way was unimpeded, which only fuelled the horrible suspicion in her mind. There were supposed to be two guards on watch at all times--a dangerously low number, Elise had argued, but it had been a compromise between security and secrecy. *The fewer people who know where he is,* Allen had said, *the fewer guards we'll need.*  
  
But there was no sign of any guards at all. An assassin could easily slip inside and slay his target without any interference. But Allen had hand-picked these men himself. It was unthinkable that they would have deserted their posts. Millerna's pulse skipped faster as her mind ran through the possibilities: bribed, lured away, ambushed... worst of all, *suborned*, and perhaps taking an active part in whatever horrible scenario she was about to discover.  
  
Millerna could see the smoke now, billowing down the corridor from a glowing doorway. At the entrance to the room, Geve put out his arm to stop her. "I should go first, your Highness."  
  
Millerna nodded. Geve stepped forward into the smoke, cautious and watchful. Millerna followed close behind, the acrid vapours stinging her eyes. Could any living thing endure this for long?  
  
They found the first guard lying just beyond the threshold. A long red welt marked the side of his face, but his whimpering moans indicated he would survive to fight again. Another guard lay fallen nearby, unconscious but alive. There was no sign of anyone else in the room.  
  
They beat out the flames using blankets from the bed, sending thick clouds of smoke swirling through the room. Coughing, Millerna ran to unhook the window latch, pushing out the glass to allow fresh air to flow in. A choked off gasp from behind made her whirl around.  
  
She saw Virnan fall forward, a bloody gash across his back. A figure stood behind him in the doorway, drawn sword in hand, demon smile on its face.  
  
"Are you looking for Allen?" inquired Dilandau Albatou. "He's not here. There's only me."  
  
He looked like a ghost risen from the grave, his skin an unnatural waxen shade. His pale hair fell in dishevelled strands around his face. A long, curving scar along his right cheekbone marred the symmetry of his features. His eyes burned fever bright in his skull.  
  
Geve had drawn his own sword, stepping in front of Millerna. "Put down your weapon," he said.  
  
"Yeah, sure," Dilandau answered. "When they bury me!" Half a breath later his sword clashed against Geve's. With a frightening recklessness, he lunged inside Geve's guard, forcing the man backwards and off-balance. Geve twisted to one side as he fell, to avoid crashing into Millerna. Dilandau was on him in an instant, sword raised and then falling.  
  
There was no time for thought. Millerna was weaponless. All she could do was catch at Dilandau's arm like a suicidal maniac. "No--please--don't kill him! He's only trying to protect me."  
  
Dilandau swung around to face her, fury distorting his features. For the space of several heartbeats, Millerna was looking into a scorching, scarlet gaze that cut through her as though she were nothing at all. *I'm dead. I'm dead. Elise will say I've been so stupid.*  
  
"Please," she said in a small voice. "He's only protecting me."  
  
A flicker of light appeared in the depths of those eyes, as if some distant memory stirred. With a snarl, Dilandau brought his sword down--reversed, striking the pommel against the back of the man's head. Geve slid to the floor with a groan.  
  
The sword was pointing at Millerna now, its razor tip dancing within inches of her throat. "You will show me where the guymelefs are kept."  
  
She nodded silently, afraid she would spill out a babble of relief or hysteria if she spoke.  
  
"Walk in front of me. No tricks. Understand?" He gestured for her to start moving. Millerna took two steps towards the door, then turned to cast an anxious glance at her former companions. Geve wasn't moving, but at least he seemed to be breathing. As for Virnan, she couldn't tell how serious his wounds were without examining him.  
  
Dilandau saw her looking at the fallen men. "What's the problem? They're still alive."  
  
"They're hurt. They need medical attention."  
  
"You think I've got time to stand around while you play nurse? The sooner you take me to my guymelef, the sooner you can get back to your friends." He brandished the sword at her. "Now move."  
  
*****  
  
The wind howled like an animal, its mournful cries reverberating along the maze of paths and archways that linked courtyard to courtyard, wing to wing. Twilight was rapidly melting into night, making it more difficult for Millerna to pick her way through the fallen tiles and broken masonry that littered her path. Everyone else, it seemed, had sense enough to avoid this part of the palace after dark, at least until the worst of the war damage could be repaired.  
  
Rain splattered onto the cracked flagstones. Millerna could feel herself shivering as the wind slid against her. She would have liked to believe it wasn't fear she felt, but she knew better. Not only fear for herself either. The threat Dilandau held against her was pitifully small compared with what he could do to the palace, to its people, to Asturia, to Allen. What he could do to Allen, even simply by dying--it was unthinkable.  
  
She had to get away. She had to reach Allen. This was all wrong. They were supposed to be protecting Dilandau, weren't they? Allen said he was beginning to accept the situation. Allen said he was going to settle down in time. Allen seemed to have misjudged Dilandau's willingness to cooperate. *Oh, Allen, what do I do now?*  
  
No one was here to help her, advise her, correct her. It was like the time Allen had been critically wounded in battle, bleeding to death on the inside in a slow river of pain. Millerna had been thrust forward as the only one with a chance of saving him. The only one with any knowledge of the healing arts, faced with a situation she had only read about in textbooks. But then, no one else present had read those textbooks at all. It had to be her, or nobody.  
  
*I don't want this. Not again.*  
  
She thought about faking a fall, pretending to twist an ankle. But if Dilandau believed she couldn't be of any use to him, he might simply run her through. He hovered behind her now, watchful as a hawk. His footfalls sounded close on her own, although there was an irregularity in his pace. His breathing was noticeably laboured, despite his efforts at maintaining a show of strength.  
  
"You're wounded, aren't you," Millerna said.  
  
"That's none of your business." After a moment, Dilandau added, "You think you can outrun me? Go ahead and try it."  
  
"That isn't what I was thinking--"  
  
"Yeah, right. You're just *so* concerned about my health, of course. Do you even know who I am?"  
  
"Of course. Everyone's heard of you." Psychopath, the stories went. A vicious, wanton killer. He had razed Fanelia, then Freid, destroying without mercy. Even Asturia had not gone unscathed. He was surely a monster, everyone agreed, a twisted soul unrestrained by morals.  
  
He was a monster created by the sorcerers, Allen had said, his soul twisted by their brutal experiments. But what was twisted could perhaps be mended. And this was Allen's desperate gamble.  
  
She caught glimpses of Dilandau sideways when they turned corners. He didn't look like the embodiment of evil, dressed only in a thin white tunic, ash smudges on his face. He was perhaps half a head taller than she was, although his light frame could deceive a casual observer into underestimating his height. His eyes flickered from shadow to shadow, as though expecting enemies to spring in ambush at any second.  
  
"This is taking too long. Are you trying to lead me in circles?" The blade's point pressed into the small of her back.  
  
"No," she said, attempting to keep her voice steady. "This route takes longer because it goes through the rear gardens. But it means you won't run into any other people. That's what you want, isn't it?"  
  
It was what Millerna hoped for anyway--she had seen the results of Dilandau's previous collisions with palace personnel, and she knew that any further encounters could easily turn fatal. But the courtyards seemed to be deserted at this hour, the people driven indoors by the chill and the dark and the intermittent rain. Likewise, the terraced gardens ahead of them were empty of human movement. The stillness was only broken by the slow drip of water from leaves.  
  
The rain had eased to barely a drizzle now, but Millerna still took care on the slick stones as she descended the steps between each terrace level. Dilandau muttered impatiently each time she slowed, prodding her onwards with the tip of his sword.  
  
"I'm going as fast as I can," Millerna bit out, goaded into speech. "Can't you show some understanding? I'm the one trying to help you!"  
  
She was slammed into the wall of the stairway, Dilandau's hand gripping her shoulder painfully. She could feel the damp stone against her back as she stared up into his burning eyes.  
  
"That's what Allen Schezar said to me too," he snarled. "When will you people get it into your heads? I don't *want* your help. I don't *need* your help. I look after myself!"  
  
Her shoulder hurt. Her head hurt. Her clothes were wet and her lungs still ached from the smoke. Elise would lecture her and Allen would be upset at not having been there. Millerna felt something flare up like lightning inside her.  
  
"If you can look after yourself, then go ahead! You don't need me." She struck Dilandau's arm away and pushed past him down the steps.  
  
His fingers closed roughly over the folds of her sleeve. In sudden panic, Millerna pulled herself away, scraping her elbow hard against the wall. The shift in momentum caught Dilandau unprepared. He spiralled sideways, foot skidding off-balance, hand still clutching the lacy fabric of the sleeve. The threads ripped against his weight and he fell backwards, with barely enough time for his eyes to widen. There was only empty air behind him.  
  
Dilandau fell like a white shadow, almost floating, as his inarticulate cry split the darkness of the night. Millerna heard the dull thud of flesh on stone, and then silence, broken only by her own ragged breathing.  
  
*****  
  
Millerna sat curled against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees. If she could cry, she would, but her throat had locked up and all she could manage were a few shuddering breaths.  
  
Across from her, at the foot of the steps, Dilandau's still, tumbled body lay. Earlier, she had crawled over to it, checked for pulse, checked for breathing. Vital signs present. But that didn't ease the slow twisting of dread in her heart.  
  
*What have you done to my little sister?*  
  
Millerna clenched her hands tight in despair. She couldn't move him, not by herself, and perhaps she shouldn't, not if his injuries were more serious than they appeared. She should run and get help, but what if he woke up while she was away? Or worse, what if he *died*, alone and in the dark?  
  
So she sat staring at the body at the foot of the steps, contemplating various courses of action and finding none that were acceptable, when Dilandau's eyes slit open a fraction, and there was no time for contemplation anymore.  
  
Millerna saw him wince, and guessed that he had just tried to raise his head. "You had better lie still for the moment. You hit your head on the stone when you landed."  
  
Dilandau let out a huff of derision. "And whose fault was that?" Still, he remained as he was, closing his eyes briefly with a low mutter.  
  
After a while, he spoke again. "What are you doing still here? You could have escaped by now. I won't be able to catch you."  
  
"And leave you here all alone? Who knows what you'll do? You might end up burning the whole palace to the ground. No. We'll wait for help."  
  
Millerna prayed that someone would find them soon. After all, they ought to notice, eventually, that the Princess was missing. And at any rate, as soon as they discovered the guards, the alarm would be raised. How long until the next change of shift? She hoped they wouldn't have to wait till morning. Millerna shivered with cold.  
  
She saw Dilandau's eyes watching her, and she realised he was looking at the sword now resting across her lap. She curled her fingers around the hilt, trying to exude a confidence she didn't feel.  
  
"Do you even know how to use that?" Dilandau asked.  
  
"I imagine it doesn't take much effort to put a hole in someone with this," Millerna said, hefting the weapon. "Much easier than having to mend it."  
  
"You'd think so, wouldn't you." Dilandau snorted in disgust. "To think I was almost killed by someone like you."  
  
"You know it was an accident," Millerna said. "I'm not like you. I don't enjoy killing people."  
  
"I guess crippling them is more your style?"  
  
Millerna clamped her mouth shut against a stinging retort. She wasn't going to be dragged into these games. She was sorely tempted to leave Dilandau here, abandoning him to his own damnation. Let the guards deal with him when they found him. He could be Someone Else's Problem.  
  
But she heard again in her head Allen's words to her: *You'll look after my sister, won't you? She doesn't have any friends.*  
  
If Serena Schezar was friendless, surely Dilandau Albatou was even more so.  
  
None of this had turned out the way she had planned. She'd wanted to show Allen she could be a help to him rather than a burden. She wanted to be his ally in a hostile court. She wanted to make him happy, to break the silence of his constant brooding. Everything in recent months had shaken him: the gruelling war against Zaibach, his arrest on false treason charges, the girl from the Phantom Moon, his hated father's ghost, and his forbidden affairs coming back to haunt him. Now this. His sister. Not his sister. His own blood kin. His enemy.  
  
*Oh, Allen, I wish I knew how to help you.*  
  
Millerna heard a low groan, and saw that Dilandau was trying to prop himself up with one arm. "I warned you about moving," she said, but he ignored her. His skin glistened with droplets of sweat as he struggled to a sitting position.  
  
"How far do you think you can run, in that state?"  
  
"It doesn't matter. Anywhere's better than here." He pushed himself to his feet, clinging to the wall with one hand. He managed two steps before he swayed forward dangerously.  
  
Millerna caught him before he hit the flagstones again. She sagged beneath his weight, lowering him to the ground quickly in what was probably more a controlled fall than anything else. Millerna realised with alarm that she had been scant inches away from skewering Dilandau with the sword. Guiltily, she sheathed it into her belt, where it hung awkwardly but out of the way.  
  
Dilandau's breathing was shallow and quick, and his skin was an unhealthy grey. She placed two fingers on his wrist, testing his pulse.  
  
"Don't touch me, you bitch." Dilandau raised his hand to shove her away. She slapped it aside, inwardly shocked at her own temerity.  
  
"Do you think I'm trying to kill you? I just want to examine your injuries."  
  
Dilandau sat still, cursing softly, the edges of his breathing ragged. At least now he suffered her to lay her fingers on him, probing carefully for damage. He let out a muffled yelp when she touched his left arm.  
  
"The bone is broken there," Millerna said, with the satisfaction of a sound diagnosis. "You must have landed on it."  
  
"I could have told you that myself."  
  
"Hold still," Millerna said. At his wary glance, "I've done this before."  
  
"Broken someone's arm?"  
  
"Set bones." Dilandau still looked sceptical, so she added, "I've studied some medicine."  
  
"That's really going to make me feel better," he said sarcastically. Millerna tilted her head at him, but he did not choose to elaborate. Shrugging her shoulders, Millerna pulled the bones back into alignment.  
  
Dilandau didn't cry out, but he went rigid for those few seconds before letting out a harsh sigh.  
  
"If I had my medical bag," Millerna said, "I could give you some painkillers." She didn't know why, but she felt apologetic about that omission. The habit of being professional, perhaps.  
  
"I don't like drugs," Dilandau said. "You can't control what they do to you." He shook his head, as though casting off the grip of memory. "I'd rather the pain than the drugs."  
  
It was the first thing he'd said that was neither threat nor insult. He must be in worse shape than he was letting on. Millerna could see how young he was--even younger than herself--and the lines of fatigue and strain on his face only served to highlight his youth. He'd been at war half his life, she thought.  
  
"Was it very bad?" Millerna asked gently.  
  
Dilandau's expression closed up like a box. "I was a soldier. Am a soldier. That's the way it is. Only the strong survive."  
  
"It doesn't have to be that way anymore," Millerna said. "He--" and there was no need to say who-- "he wants to give you a second chance. The life you should have had."  
  
Dilandau stared at her, then broke into laughter. "A second chance? For a Zaibach soldier like me? What kind of fool does he take me for? I know what you all think of me. As if I could ever fit in here, after what I've done and who I am. Does he think I can just get a commission in the Asturian army or something? Hah. I'm not his sweet little sister anymore, you know. And if he wants to lock me up until I break and turn into some kind of reformed subject, I swear, I'm going to fight him every inch of the way..."   
  
As he ran on, Millerna creased her brows in perplexity. *Asturian army? Reformed subject? He's talking as though he thinks...* She stopped breathing. *He doesn't know. Oh gods. He doesn't know what Allen's doing.*  
  
She stared at him, still in shock, certain that her emotions must be apparent on her face. She was afraid to speak lest her voice give her away. But she had to say something, she had to make some response to his virulent speech. Millerna moistened her lips.  
  
"Step away from her, Dilandau." A voice like drawn steel. Millerna looked up at the familiar sound, a tidal surge of relief flooding through her.  
  
Allen Schezar stood in an archway, attired in full uniform, even to the obviously non-ceremonial sword by his side. His hair whipped furiously in the wind. It was hard to make out his expression in the dim light, but Millerna guessed that cold terror had to be a part of it.  
  
"It's all right," Millerna said, trying to project reassurance. "He's not badly hurt."  
  
Behind her, she could hear Dilandau dragging himself to his feet. "It's always you, isn't it," he spat. "Every time, somehow, you're standing in my way. Every. Damn. Time!"  
  
"Fortunately," Allen said, his voice level, "the men you attacked are not severely injured. Otherwise, even I would not be able to save you."  
  
"As if I need you to save me!"  
  
Millerna turned to one side and drew back, watching Dilandau stumble towards Allen, step by laborious step. "You don't know when to let go, do you." His voice was low and hoarse. He swayed slightly as he approached, clutching his broken arm. Millerna stood transfixed. Allen remained motionless. Even when Dilandau collapsed onto his knees, Allen made no move to assist him.  
  
"You should have left me on that battlefield," Dilandau whispered.  
  
The hanging lanterns rocked perilously in the rising wind, throwing the shadows into crazed dance. Dilandau rose to his feet, the deadly glint of a knife in his right hand. Millerna drew in a sharp breath. It had not even occurred to her to search Dilandau for concealed weapons.  
  
Allen drew his sword in one smooth motion. "Put the knife down, Dilandau. Do you think you can bluff your way out of here with that?"  
  
Dilandau bared a feral smile at Allen. "Let's see who's really bluffing here." Then he launched himself forward, his naked blade levelled at the knight.  
  
Allen had to shift sideways to avoid impaling Dilandau on the end of his sword. Dilandau, of course, was not hampered by any such qualms.  
  
Millerna cried out a warning, but her words were torn away by the wind.  
  
She saw Dilandau plunge the knife towards Allen's undefended chest. She saw Allen stiffen, heard a sudden breath of pain. Her own heart contracted in a spasm of terror.  
  
She saw Allen's hand wrapped around the knife blade, the edge digging into his gloved fingers, the tip a hairsbreadth from his chest.  
  
The sword stood immobile in Allen's right hand, useless at close quarters. Dilandau twisted the knife. Blood seeped into white leather.  
  
Millerna felt like screaming.  
  
Instead, moving like an automaton, she drew the sword at her belt, levelling the blade at Dilandau's back. "Drop the knife," she heard herself say.  
  
"Or else what? You'll kill me? You're not the type."  
  
"Oh, wouldn't I? Wouldn't I? Go ahead and test me." Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. "I am a Princess of the Blood Royal; to lift a hand against me is *treason*. I have the right to execute you. *On the spot.*"  
  
She took a step forward. Dilandau jerked his head around to face this new threat. In that moment of distraction, Allen let go of his sword and used his now-free hand to grip Dilandau's arm--exactly where the bone was broken. Dilandau turned white, dropping the knife from nerveless fingers. Allen did not slacken his grip.  
  
Millerna gazed at Dilandau over the outstretched sword, seeing the scorn in his eyes replaced by uncertainty. Was this what it felt like, to have the power of life and death in your hands? To make people do as you pleased because you were more powerful than them? The adrenalin beat in her veins, making her feel lightheaded. Then she saw the look in Allen's eyes. It was a look she never thought she'd see there. Not from him.  
  
Millerna threw the sword down, where it clattered loudly on the stones. She was shaking violently. She felt sick. She could feel the stink of metal tainting her skin.  
  
"Get him out of here," she said, turning away. "I have to go tend to my people."  
  
*****  
  
She heard their voices hammering through the walls as she strode down the corridor towards the makeshift infirmary.  
  
"How do you expect me to defend you when you run amok in the palace, attacking your guards and accosting the Princess? It doesn't help your situation at all."  
  
"Did I say I wanted your help? I don't need your help!"  
  
"After today's little display, I think you do. I am the only one standing between you and the King's justice."  
  
"Am I supposed to be grateful? Why, *thank* you, Allen Schezar, for protecting me like the brave and noble knight you are."  
  
"I don't care for your mockery." Allen's voice was bare of emotion. "Or for these kinds of reckless antics. You'd best remember you're not a Dragonslayer anymore."  
  
There was a taut silence, then the sound of something smashing against the wall. Millerna, her heart in her throat, wrenched the door open.  
  
Porcelain shards were sprayed all over the rug. A starry impact mark scarred the wall by Allen's shoulder. Allen's face was marble, but his eyes were full of storm clouds. Directly across from him, Dilandau sat rigidly upright in bed, his hands clenched in rage.  
  
"Let's go," Allen said, drawing Millerna by the elbow. She allowed him to lead her back outside, where he turned to close the door, pulling it shut with his bandaged hand. She could hear the click of tumblers falling into place.  
  
Millerna had to increase her pace to keep up with Allen's long, measured strides as he started down the hall. "Is he going to be all right?" It was an inane question, but she had to break that agonising silence.  
  
"The only thing to do is to leave him alone for a while. Give him time to come to his senses." Allen's tone implied that he was willing to let that take as long as it had to.  
  
Then he appeared to collect himself, his expression melting into one of concern. "But what about you, your Highness? Are you sure you're all right?"  
  
"I'll be fine. Thank you. I was just a bit shaken."  
  
That didn't nearly describe it, and yet what else could she say? *He could have killed me. I could have killed him. He *would* have killed you if he had been able to. What kind of nightmare is this?*  
  
Allen searched her face, seeming to understand what she left unsaid. "I'm glad you're all right," he said. "If anything had happened to you, I would not have forgiven myself." He took her hand in his and gently pressed his lips to her palm.  
  
A heartfelt pledge like this from Allen would normally send a cascade of warmth through Millerna. But after the stresses of the past night, any pleasure she could feel at his attentions was muted. And there was something else between them.  
  
"He doesn't know, does he," Millerna said. "You haven't told him."  
  
Allen was silent for a few moments. "It would serve no good purpose. He has already been through enough."  
  
"But he thinks--"  
  
"I know what he thinks. Believe me. It's better this way."  
  
*Better for whom?* Millerna thought, but did not say aloud. Instead, she said, "Elise is going to hear about what happened." She didn't want Elise to know. Elise would only worry, and admonish, and demand promises that couldn't be kept. "She's going to be unhappy, Allen. People already know he's being held here, even if they don't know where he is or what he looks like. Elise is trying to allay their concerns, but now that Father..."  
  
"It won't happen again. I won't let it." Allen laid a hand gently on her shoulder. "Tell Princess Elise it will all be over soon."  
  
*I want to believe you, Allen. I want to trust you. I know you believe you're doing the right thing. But you're playing a dangerous game, and you're trying to play it alone. You say it's your responsibility, but surely it's his too? Can you really intend to remake his life for him without him taking part?*  
  
*Oh, Allen, do you know what you're doing?*  
  
  
- continued in Part 4 - 


	4. Dreaming of the Dead

T I E S O F B L O O D  
  
an Escaflowne fanfic  
  
by Serenade  
  
  
--- Author's notes ---  
  
Spoiler warning:  
This story is set after the end of the Escaflowne series. If you haven't seen all the episodes, you may encounter a number of significant spoilers.  
  
Disclaimers and other notes can be found in Part 1 of the story.  
  
Thanks again to Nat-chan for beta reading and advice.   
  
  
--- Part 4: Dreaming of the Dead ---  
  
Dilandau lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, his gaze lost in its mosaic of cracks and shadows. He refused to see Allen; he refused to see anyone at all. Even the guards who brought his food and the servants who changed the linen entered the room only when necessary.  
  
He watched the light grow pale with the hours and then deepen into indigo again. He left the curtains closed. At intervals, he heard the door creak open and the clatter of a tray being set down. Sometimes he dragged himself out of bed to sate his hunger, feeding himself clumsily with his uninjured hand. Sometimes it seemed like too much effort, and he lay motionless until he heard the door scrape open again and the rattle of crockery being carried away.  
  
*You'd best remember you're not a Dragonslayer anymore.*  
  
He'd wanted to fling boiling abuse at Allen; he'd wanted to skin him alive with curses. But there were no words that could have expressed the borderless rage seething inside him. *Not a Dragonslayer anymore.* That *burned*, that did--a slow, relentless ache, like an itch beneath the skin, like the sting of the scar branded upon his cheek.  
  
How *could* he call himself a Dragonslayer now, anyway? He was a soldier without orders, a commander without troops, a pilot without a guymelef. What claim did he have to rank and position? What was Dilandau Albatou now?  
  
He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about anything. It was so much easier to lie there and pretend the world away, in the eternal twilight of that room.  
  
But whenever he fell into sleep, the dreams came.  
  
*****  
  
Dilandau was shaken from nightmare by the rough grip of hands on his shoulders. He lurched upright, eyes wide, ready to strike whichever of his hapless officers had drawn the task of waking him. He stopped cold when he registered the tall, shadowy profile outlined in the semidarkness.  
  
"Are you planning to lie there until you rot?"  
  
Allen's voice was tight with suppressed anger. So the bastard wasn't even going to let him rest in peace. Dilandau fell back onto the pillows. "Leave me the hell alone."  
  
Allen muttered a disgusted oath and turned towards the window. He tore the curtains open, flooding the room with mid-morning light. Dilandau recoiled from the sudden brightness.  
  
"Get up. There's a carriage waiting for us outside."  
  
Dilandau raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. "I'm not going anywhere with you. And close the frigging curtains!"  
  
As though he hadn't heard, Allen threw a bundle of clothes at Dilandau.  
  
"Get dressed," Allen said. "We're going to visit your mother's grave."  
  
*****  
  
The rain had stopped. Overhead, the sky shone a pale, fragile blue, laced with delicate spirals of cloud.  
  
Dilandau shivered in the brisk wind despite the heavy wool cloak he wore. He was out here under the naked sky without weapon or armour or guymelef, and it filled him with a curious sense of exposure.  
  
The hillside rippled as the wind sent a wave rolling across the grass. Only the dark columns of the gravestones seemed to pin it down to the earth. Thousands of them lined the vast green expanse of the hill. Many were obviously recent, the newly turned soil beneath them dark, like scars furrowed into the earth.  
  
This particular gravestone, however, had been here for some time, the grass curling thick and green around its base. Long strands brushed against Dilandau's ankles as he approached, his eyes focused on the cross-shaped marker that stood as high as his chest. He was hardly aware of the presences behind him; Allen, the Princess, their escorts, all of them receded into insignificance.  
  
Everything was obvious in retrospect, of course. If Dilandau accepted Allen's claims about his origins, then they shared common blood, common ancestry. Common parentage.  
  
*I don't have a mother,* Dilandau had said. All he could think of to say. Allen had given this protest the scathing look it deserved.  
  
Now Dilandau laid his hand upon the stone, feeling the grainy texture of its surface, the warmth against his skin.  
  
"Hello, Mother," he said.  
  
He'd meant it to sound casual, perhaps even coolly sarcastic. But somehow, his voice wavered on the last syllable. He only hoped Allen didn't hear.  
  
Dilandau tried to picture her, the woman lying beneath that stone, ten years dead. No images came into his mind. Had she been laughing or serious? Kind or severe? Had she been beautiful? Did she look anything like Allen? Did she look anything like... himself?  
  
His hands bunched into fists. This was crazy.  
  
*Mother.*  
  
He couldn't even remember her face.  
  
"What am I doing here?" he said, too loudly. He spun around, his eyes challenging Allen. "Do you expect me to be able to remember her? Well, I don't, okay? No happy childhood memories, no anything! So, are you satisfied?"  
  
Allen swept him a look that would have chilled stone. "This isn't about you," he said. "We're here to pay our respects to the dead."  
  
Dilandau flushed, chastened.  
  
He watched as Allen and Elise laid flowers upon the grave: lilies and bluebells and columbine, gathered into a generous wreath. ("She loved wildflowers," Allen said.)  
  
They stood for several minutes in silent contemplation. Dilandau saw that the edges of the gravestone were beginning to wear smooth with time and weather, but the letters upon its surface had been engraved deep and were legible still.  
  
ENCIA SCHEZAR  
ALWAYS BELOVED  
  
The dates were carved below.  
  
"How did she die?" Dilandau asked, before he could stop himself.  
  
The sun slid behind fragments of cloud; bands of shadow passed over them.  
  
"She fell ill," Allen said slowly, "soon after Serena disappeared. Her health was always delicate. This time she just kept on fading, and there was nothing--" He made a brief, abortive gesture with his hands.  
  
At Allen's words, Dilandau felt a strange, stabbing sensation in his heart. "So is that my fault too?"  
  
He expected Allen to reprimand him, or to snap back an exasperated denial. But Allen only gave him a distant, almost wistful look. "No. Not your fault."  
  
Elise's voice rippled through the stillness like wind on water. "Allen." She began walking towards the crest of the hill. Allen turned to follow, matching his stride to hers. He didn't wait to see if Dilandau was behind him.  
  
Dilandau glanced around at the guards, who seemed only mildly interested in his activities. He noted, however, that their swords were loose in their sheaths, and their hands were never far from the hilts.  
  
Dilandau made a small sound of derision, and hastened to catch up with the others.  
  
Near the top of the rise, where the sea breeze bent the long grass into one undulating wave, another set of graves stood silhouetted against the sky. They were undecorated, their carvings no more ornate than the rest, but there was a sense of age and dignity about them.  
  
Elise walked through the long row of graves with scarcely a sideways glance. She stopped in front of the last gravestone in the line. To Dilandau's surprise, Elise knelt down beside it, brushing the dirt away from the stone with her own hands.  
  
"Who's that?"  
  
"Her mother," Allen said. "The late queen."  
  
Allen didn't seem about to join Elise in this particular ritual, nor did he indicate that Dilandau should do so. Waiting for Elise to finish her observances, Dilandau fiddled again with the position of his sling, which always seemed too high or too low for his arm.  
  
As he glanced around idly, his attention was drawn to another gravestone standing a little off to one side. Unlike the others, it did not stand upon a mound. A posy of withered flowers was laid in front of it. Dilandau gravitated closer, to see what name was inscribed on its face.  
  
"Marlene," Allen said, from behind him.  
  
"What?" Dilandau spun around.  
  
Allen's expression was odd. "Her name was Marlene Erisha Aston." He gave the words a gentle rhythm, almost like poetry.  
  
Dilandau turned back to the gravestone, crouching down to read the inscription. This Marlene had died five years ago. "Aston... Isn't that the name of the king?"  
  
"She was the eldest princess," Elise said, walking up to them. Bending down, she placed the last of the flowers upon the grave. "My sister. Lost to us now."  
  
"She was still so young," Allen said, a strange note in his voice. "She deserved--so much more time--"  
  
If Dilandau didn't know better, he'd swear Allen was trying to hold his emotions in check, and he wondered what there was about some dead princess to get so worked up about.  
  
After a moment, Dilandau realised. Of course. Allen had... issues with lost sisters. No doubt it was a sensitive area for him, especially if he'd been mourning Serena all these years. Dilandau wondered in morbid curiosity if there was a grave for her somewhere here. "Hey, Allen..."  
  
"She's not even here," Allen said, as though he hadn't heard. Dilandau realised they were talking about Princess Marlene again. Allen's gaze caught Elise's, held it. "But we pretend she is, don't we? Pretend to an empty cenotaph. Pretend she isn't buried in Freid, far, far from home."  
  
"Freid *was* her home, after she married." Elise, not missing a beat, her response all ready, as though this was a conversation they had worn grooves into.  
  
"Maybe," Allen said. "Maybe not. All I know is she died there."  
  
He turned and began walking back down the hill, past the long lines of graves.  
  
Elise watched him go, releasing a slow sigh from her lips. "Come on," she said at last. "Let's go."  
  
Migel had died in Freid too, Dilandau thought as they began their descent. Did he have a gravestone as well, or had he simply been buried in a random pit, unmarked and unmourned? No one would put flowers on his grave. No one would ever kneel by his stone and whisper to him how badly he was missed.  
  
*And what about you?* the voice inside him whispered. *Who's going to put flowers on your grave? Who's going to remember you when you're dead, or even care that you're gone?*  
  
Dilandau raised his head. At the bottom of the hill, Allen was waiting for them, standing alone in the midst of the silent forest of graves.  
  
Their eyes met.  
  
  
- continued in Part 5 - 


	5. And Trust

T I E S O F B L O O D  
  
an Escaflowne fanfic  
  
by Serenade  
  
--- Author's notes ---  
  
Spoiler warning:  
  
This story is set after the end of the Escaflowne series. If you haven't seen all the episodes, you may encounter a number of significant spoilers.  
  
Disclaimers and other notes can be found in Part 1 of the story.  
  
Thanks as always to Nat-chan for beta reading and advice.   
  
--- Part 5: And Trust ---  
  
Dilandau sat by the pond, one knee crooked up in front of him, tossing pebbles into the water with restless energy. The guards hovered in the distance, talking quietly among themselves and casting an occasional glance his way. He knew they were alert for an escape attempt, but Dilandau had already assessed the situation and judged the wall of the garden too high to scale, even if his arm hadn't still been in its sling. He could wait for a better opportunity; his broken bones were knitting together day by day, and he was sure Allen didn't suspect how rapidly he could heal.  
  
Dilandau smiled to himself, and hurled another stone into the water. It skipped twice before vanishing silently into the murky depths.  
  
"Enjoying the afternoon sun?"  
  
Dilandau jerked his head up. For a moment he couldn't make out who it was--a woman in a white dress, framed by guards, her face in silhouette. Then he saw the sunlight shimmering off her blonde curls, and he drew in a sharp breath.  
  
It was *her*. The crazy bitch who'd done his arm in. Princess Millerna.  
  
He hadn't seen her again since that night, and for one wild moment he wondered if she meant to carry out her threat to have him executed. There was nothing he could use as a weapon, unless he hoped to pelt her to death with pebbles. And then there were her guards to consider. On the other hand, Dilandau had his own guards. But would they protect him from the princess?  
  
There was no sign of hostility on her face as she seated herself beside him on the carved stone bench. "There used to be fish in there," she said conversationally. "I remember trying to catch them when I was little. My nurse threw a fit when she saw me with my skirts all soaked." She leaned forward, peering at the opaque green surface. "I wonder if there are still any left?"  
  
"What are you doing here?" he managed at last. "Come to finish me off?"  
  
"I wanted to see how you were."  
  
"Fine. No thanks to you." He raised his splinted arm at her.  
  
"Don't be a baby, it's healing," Millerna said, and for an uneasy second Dilandau wondered how much she guessed.  
  
"Did Allen send you?" he asked in suspicion.  
  
"No. He didn't." Millerna contemplated her folded hands. "Actually, Allen doesn't know I'm here. He doesn't want me to see you until--until you're feeling better."  
  
*You mean less likely to attack someone.* "So you're here without his permission?"  
  
Millerna arched a golden eyebrow. "Permission?"  
  
Dilandau was sharply reminded of just who outranked whom here. "Aren't you afraid of me?" he said, belatedly trying to regain control of the conversation.  
  
"Yes," she said. "But I'm more afraid for you."  
  
"Spare me," Dilandau said. "Why should you care if they execute me? I did everything they say I did."  
  
"Allen's not going to let anyone hurt you." Millerna's gaze flickered away, then back again. "Look, is it so hard to open up to other possibilities? Do you really want to go back to what you were before? Haven't enough people died already?"  
  
His mouth went dry. Migel. Jajuka. All of them. All dead. All dead. "It's not my fault!" he burst out. "I didn't force them to follow me. They chose to do it! I didn't, I didn't--" He stopped short, aware of the rising hysteria in his voice. *I didn't kill them.*  
  
Millerna was staring at him as though he had grown another head. Then she said, slowly, "I see. It's all right, Dilandau. It's all right."  
  
She was looking at him thoughtfully now, as though weighing up the merits of an operation, or diagnosing a particularly elusive complaint. Dilandau stared back at her, refusing to be the first to look away. Eventually, Millerna glanced aside, but a faint smile twitched the corners of her lips.  
  
"You know," she said, "sometimes it's easy to rebel against everything people tell you, simply out of habit. But you can waste years, trying so hard *not* to be what they want you to be. It can make you lose sight of what it is you really want. Do you understand I'm saying?"  
  
Dilandau wasn't sure he did--wasn't even sure if her oblique comments were targeted at him. "So what are you telling me to do?"  
  
"I'm not telling you anything," Millerna said. "That's the whole point." She stood up, dusting fallen leaves off her dress. "You have to choose for yourself--before other people decide to choose for you."  
  
*****  
  
From the window of his quarters--and when had he started thinking of them as his quarters?--Dilandau could see the first stars glimmering into existence above the palace walls. A light breeze stirred his hair--it was past time to get it cut, but so far no one had ventured to approach him with bladed objects of any kind. He would have to argue that with Allen sometime soon.  
  
Dilandau could hear the distant sounds of human activity below--somewhere in the palace, cooks were yelling at kitchenmaids, guards swapped stories as they came off duty, and stablehands trotted horses back to their stalls for the night.  
  
He could hear all this, but not see it. The courtyard beneath his window was empty, as though invisibly cordoned off from the rest of the palace. No one ever came, except for the guards who stood outside his now locked door. It was a stark contrast to the simmering chaos of barracks life he had been used to. Back then, he'd hardly had room to breathe, days and nights crammed with other people's faces and voices. Now he had all the space he could ever have wished for.  
  
Dilandau leaned out the window, straining to suck the night air deep into his lungs. What had Millerna meant, telling him to choose for himself? What kind of choices did he have?  
  
An explosion of cawing split the air as a flock of seagulls wheeled over the palace roof, their cries echoing across the wild blue sky. Suddenly, Dilandau didn't want to be in this room anymore; he didn't want the silent, empty darkness. He didn't know where he wanted to go--the only imperative was *out*.  
  
Dilandau pushed the windowpane out as far as it would go. Looking down, he saw a ledge beneath the window, running the length of the wall. If he could reach that, he could probably inch along it until he reached the sloping roof of the adjoining wing. From there--well, who knew?  
  
Dilandau slipped the hated sling from his arm and flexed his elbow a few times. The joint was a little stiff, but it no longer hurt to move. He ran finger and thumb along his forearm, testing for soreness. There was no sign, and he untied the splints from around his arm. He dropped the bandages out the window, watching them flutter down to the flagstones far below.  
  
After one last look around his room, Dilandau climbed out the window, setting each foot carefully down upon the ledge. As he gripped the windowsill, the awareness of empty space behind him prickled his skin with goosebumps.  
  
Now wasn't the time for freefall flashbacks. Dilandau turned around, so that his back was safely against the wall. The ledge was only a foot wide. He looked off to the left; the roof was but a short distance away.  
  
A distant rapping intruded onto Dilandau's awareness; with horror, he realised someone was knocking on his door.  
  
"Dilandau? May I come in?"  
  
Allen's voice. Shit. Dilandau spun around to haul himself back through the window. He heaved himself up on his arms--and his left forearm seized up in pain. His elbow buckled, and he fell.  
  
His foot missed the ledge as he dropped past it; his right arm, flailing desperately, caught onto the edge. He must have cried out, because Allen shouted "Dilandau!" again, and there was the slam of the door against the wall as it banged open, and Allen's voice with a strangled curse, and then Allen was at the window, looking down, his face chalk white.  
  
Dilandau could only guess at what his own face looked like as he stared back up at Allen. He could feel nothing around him, except the grains of stone beneath the fingers of his right hand.  
  
"Hold on," Allen was saying, "hold on, I'm going to get you." Dilandau brought his left hand up, so that he clung to the ledge with both hands. His shoulder twinged, but he ignored it. Allen was reaching down towards him. Their fingers met.  
  
"Take my hand, that's it...." It was slippery with sweat, or was that Dilandau's own? His other hand still gripped the ledge, while his feet dangled helplessly in the air.  
  
"Give me your other hand." Allen was leaning as far forward as he could, the angle all wrong for proper leverage. "Give me your hand, Dilandau!"  
  
If Dilandau released his grip on the ledge, there was nothing to save him if Allen let go or if his fingers slipped. He didn't want to die, not now, not like this, his men had *died* so he could live--  
  
Allen leaned over him, long, yellow hair falling wildly down, strain pulling at his face. "I won't let you fall," he said. "Dilandau!"   
  
Dilandau let go of the ledge and stretched his hand up. "Allen--"  
  
No answer, but the tightening of strong fingers around his own. Then his arms scraped stone as he was lifted past the ledge. He scrabbled for a foothold, found one, pushed against it to boost himself up, just as Allen heaved him up and through the window. They collapsed in a heap on the floor.  
  
Dilandau lay gasping in relief and receding terror. His pulse was still racing at a hundred miles a minute. Allen's heart was also pounding; Dilandau could feel its furious beat from where he was leaning against Allen's chest. He realised their fingers were still locked together. Allen seemed to come to the same realisation, and gently disengaged his hold, allowing Dilandau to sit back. Dilandau could feel the blood returning to his hands.  
  
Allen pushed a tendril of hair away from his face. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Yeah. I think so." The skin of his palms was red raw, and it was possible he'd bruised his hip when he'd come through the window. But he'd been through worse, and after all, he was not now lying three stories down on the cold flagstones of the courtyard.  
  
"What did you think you were doing?" Allen said in a thick voice. "What did you think you were doing?"  
  
"I wanted some fresh air," Dilandau said.  
  
Allen stared at him in disbelief, as though unsure whether Dilandau was lying or merely a reckless idiot. Dilandau decided not to give Allen the satisfaction of knowing, and pasted a cocky smile onto his face. "You should put in a balcony or something."  
  
Allen gave him a hard look. "Don't you ever do anything so stupid again. I won't always be around to catch you."  
  
Dilandau waited until after Allen left before allowing himself to close his eyes and just breathe. It had been a near thing. He rubbed his fingers absently--Allen had a grip of iron. Dilandau wondered what would have happened if Allen had been unable to pull Dilandau up.  
  
Somehow, he didn't think Allen would have let go.  
  
*****  
  
Neither of them mentioned that night's incident again, but Dilandau sometimes found Allen watching him with troubled eyes. Whenever that happened, Dilandau would pretend not to notice, becoming louder and more obnoxious until Allen was pulled back into engaging with him. It was odd though--under these circumstances, baiting Allen lost some of its fun.  
  
Late one night, Dilandau was staring out the window, listening to the distant voice of a woman singing, when there came a soft tapping at the door. A few moments later, the door creaked open and Allen poked his head in. "Oh, you're awake. I thought you might have gone to bed already."  
  
"No, not yet." Dilandau shut the window and turned. "What is it?"   
  
Allen stepped inside, clasping his white-gloved hands in front of him. "There's someone I want you to meet." He moved to one side, revealing a thin, stooped figure carrying a large black bag.  
  
"Oh please, not another bloody doctor. I told you, I'm fine." Dilandau wiggled his fingers to demonstrate. "See? All healed. You can stop with this circus."  
  
"This is the last time. I promise." Allen gestured for the man to come forward. "This is Doctor Vulpis. He's just going to give you a quick checkup. Then you can go to bed."  
  
Doctor Vulpis was a middle-aged man with a sallow, lined face. He seemed vaguely familiar, and Dilandau wondered if he had seen the man before in the parade of doctors he'd endured over the past few weeks. They all looked alike after a while. He scowled at the doctor, who responded with a benign smile. "This won't take long, young man. Just sit down and relax." He began to unpack his equipment.  
  
Dilandau sat on the edge of the bed, glaring at Allen. "You're like a bloody mother hen, always fussing. I don't need you to coddle me. I went into combat once with two broken ribs."  
  
"Yes, you already told me that," Allen said. "Humour me."  
  
Dilandau let out a loud sigh. "Oh, all right. Let's get this over with."  
  
Doctor Vulpis didn't answer, continuing to lay out his instruments on a metal tray. Allen knelt in front of Dilandau so that they were at eye level. "You understand this is for your own good, don't you?"  
  
Dilandau turned his head. "Just get it over with already. I want to get some sleep."  
  
"Lord Schezar." The doctor had donned his gloves and was holding something in his hand. Allen rose and retreated.  
  
"Are you ready to begin?" Doctor Vulpis inquired.  
  
It was the way he said it. Dilandau's response died on his lips as he remembered the last time he had heard those words, that question, that tone of voice. He stared at the man in front of him, who was smiling with reassurance as he brought his hand towards Dilandau's arm. Dilandau focused on the object the doctor was holding.  
  
It was a hypodermic syringe.  
  
Dilandau scrambled up onto the bed, backing away fast. "What the hell are you doing? This isn't--"  
  
"Relax," Doctor Vulpis said, moving around the bed. "I am here to help you."  
  
"The hell you are. Get away from me!" Dilandau slid off the other side of the bed. He backed away, his legs shaky. "*I know you. You're one of them.*"  
  
"Lord Schezar, please help restrain him."  
  
"Allen!" Dilandau screamed. "He's not a doctor! He's Zaibach! *He's a sorcerer!*"  
  
Allen had not stirred; was he in shock, or just having trouble comprehending? Dilandau flung a wild glance at him. "Allen! You've got to call the guards! Arrest him! Allen--"  
  
Dilandau broke off when he realised Allen still hadn't spoken. Instead, he was gazing at Dilandau with a mild expression on his face.   
  
The bottom fell out of Dilandau's stomach.  
  
"You knew," he whispered. "You already knew..."  
  
Allen smiled soothingly at Dilandau. "It's all right," he said. "Everything's going to be all right...."  
  
Shit. Shit shit shit. Sweat trickled down the nape of Dilandau's neck. He would not panic. He would not panic.  
  
Vulpis--the sorcerer--moved towards him slowly and inexorably. Dilandau saw the tray of medical implements in front of him and hurled its contents at his foe. The sorcerer raised an arm to shield himself, then continued his advance.  
  
Dilandau dropped onto the floor and came up with a fallen scalpel, which he brandished at the sorcerer. "Stay away from me!"  
  
He saw movement from Allen out of the corner of his eye, and remembered the last time they had fought. "Don't try anything! I'm warning you." And Allen froze, because now the scalpel was pointing at Dilandau's own throat.  
  
"Don't do anything you'll regret," Allen said, his voice a hoarse whisper.  
  
"I think you'll regret it more than me," Dilandau said, not lowering his hand. "After all, if I die, so does your precious little sister." Seeing the agony in Allen's eyes, Dilandau went on, "That's what this is about, isn't it? You want to turn me back into her!"  
  
"Dilandau--"  
  
"Shut up! How dare you say my name! You don't care about me. You never did. You just want to *erase* me, like I never even existed!"  
  
"You don't understand--"  
  
"Do you think I'm stupid or something? Just get him out of here! Get him out of here now!" When Allen hesitated, Dilandau pressed the edge of the scalpel against his skin. "Do it!"  
  
Allen motioned towards the door; with a closed expression, the sorcerer picked up his bag and slipped out, still carrying the syringe.  
  
"Now," Allen said, as the door shut, "just put the blade down."  
  
"Who did you have to screw to get permission to bring in one of the enemy? Was it the regent or the sister? Oh, gods--" Dilandau's hand shook, leading to an abortive move forward by Allen--"how could you do this to me?"  
  
"Dilandau, your current condition is artificially induced. It's not a natural state. You don't know when you might get sick again--"  
  
"You lied to me!" His voice was rising into hysteria, but he didn't care. "You said you were going to protect me, but you were planning to give me right back into their hands! You know what they did to me. And you were ready to let them do it to me again. You bastard! You sick bastard...."  
  
Dilandau couldn't see anymore through the tears of rage. Somehow, he had ended up sinking to his knees. He rubbed at his eyes with both hands, and realised he had dropped the scalpel too.  
  
There were hands on his shoulders, and Allen's voice saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over. Dilandau was still shaking uncontrollably, his breath coming in ragged gasps.  
  
"Am I so wrong?" Allen's voice, a bare whisper. "Is it so wrong to want my sister back?"  
  
Dilandau jerked away. "Get out." Allen looked up again. "Get out, I said! I don't want to see you. I don't want to be in the same room as you."  
  
Allen looked as though he wanted to say something, but on seeing the expression on Dilandau's face, he nodded and stepped back towards the door. He picked up the scalpel and the other fallen implements as he went. Dilandau turned away, refusing to watch him leave.  
  
The door closed quietly.  
  
Dilandau remained as he was for a long time. He felt hot and cold all over, as though in the grip of some strange fever.  
  
There was no amnesty for him. There never had been. How had he been lulled into believing in it? The only one he could rely on was himself. It had been proven to him time and time again. You couldn't trust anyone. You were always on your own.  
  
He crawled into bed at last, staring up at the ceiling without seeing.  
  
But if he didn't trust anyone, why did he feel so betrayed?  
  
- continued in Part 6 - 


End file.
